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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500702">Aperçu</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/siano_t/pseuds/siano_t'>siano_t</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ethical Deficiencies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strawberries, True Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:42:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500702</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/siano_t/pseuds/siano_t</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During a session of therapy, Will Graham undergoes a dissociative episode, and Hannibal’s there to bring him back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ethical Deficiencies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Aperçu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Song: https://youtu.be/T4EZTVO-LIg</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Progressing into the direct centre of a situation, the mind is not able to survey over the the material and points given, which leads up to that stage. Only after that stage of limelight is where the mind can actually fixate, and then converge on the actions, the emotion, and most importantly, the reasoning. Only then, are they able to answer the question, ‘Why?’ Memories and any similar or alike recollections that build up in the brain can never be accurately built, but alarmingly similar. Entities, objects, other memories, or even people can recoup those memories, route them further, or even restore them conclusively. Decisions alike repeal for that same lucidity.”</p><p>Will Graham momentarily eyed the inventive bookshelves, and books layering them, the painting portraits, before falling on the chair in front of him. On the chair bear a black stag, with the tires and limbs of a man. It prevailed its silence, unmoving. Its ebony limbs, thin and edged, crossed over discreetly. It was conveying him its entire adequate attention, and Will could only stare blankly, grimacing at the aberrant, glazed-over ribs, hardly guarded by the thin coal-coloured flesh stretching over its ghastly body. His own fists, craned over the arms of his own chair, wedged each thumb between, his mouth desperately working his tongue between his teeth to not budge out a single word to it.</p><p>“Will? Are you listening?” The Wendigo glowered him down into the cushions, as rigid as a statue.</p><p>Will could merely gawk at it, at the suit it now wore seemingly fabricated from its fingertips and the bare flecks of the air. He quivered, moving his head stiffly in a nod to the blur that badgered out of its recognisable lithe lips. Feverishly, he smiled, “Yes.”</p><p>Leisurely, the Stag began to move a finger, a dingy prolonged claw, directing up towards the ceiling. Will followed it, though only up to its salient nail before he's made nimbly aware of the sight of figures, standing apathetically in a row. They were people he knew all apprehended to be dead, but still stood on the floorboards of Hannibal Lector's room. Will thanked the likeliness in his mind that they wouldn't move, not for him, but the Stag does exactly that, leather Oxfords lightly padding the floor in strides of Will.</p><p>Will’s features, the pale skin on his face, strains into that of discontent, of sheer dread that he felt rooting inside of his chest, dressing his veins in fear. The bodies, stark grey and soiled of chunky blood, are boring right through him, stone-blue eyes riveting the wreck of what was left of a man in front of them. The lining of Will's vision began to fuzz. The vacancy of the walls began to hue of colour, not of paint but of blood, seeping down and pooling the cracks of the floorboards. Will's mouth trembled, his eyes drifting along the border of consciousness, caused by the strained withholding he forced himself to endure. A palm, vast and somewhat mild, urged against his left cheek, thumbing down over the dampness of his skin. When he looks up, he doesn't want to see that of a Wendigo grating his skin apart. He wanted to see the very thing that lulled him when he bristled, and as he does just that, his vision is suffused of an incised man with lithe lips. Hannibal.</p><p>“Hannibal,” Will breathed, blatantly appeased, giving the man a bordering-relieved smile.</p><p>Hannibal does not look at him that same way, but of intermediate concern, thumb skewing his damp curls from his sodden forehead. “Are you alright, Will?” The man gives him no answer, simply hooking his clammy hand on his suit sleeve, funding an imperfect smile. Hannibal pursued his lips together, turning his attention aside, muttering halfway to himself. “You're having an episode.”</p><p>The man stood promptly, eyeing the way that the other was bent on keeping him there, crouched on him. “Don't leave me, Hannibal! <em>Please</em>,” Will had whined, turning his tongue over his lips before gritting his teeth, eyes falling into another trance. Hannibal quickly left, left him to an outlook of a Wendigo and Garret Jacob Hobbs, he and his looming daughter, and the bleeding walls.</p><p>The psychiatrist hastily alighted the room that was his kitchen, made forth the fridge and working his hands around the canisters of human meat and egg cartons, the bottles of wine and beer before retrieving a modest crate, opaque to those who looked. Just as quick as he left, he returned, retreating to the sight of his patient and friend housing his face in his hands, blunt fingernails abrading his skin, shaking his head. Briskly, yet carefully, the man knelt down in front of him, perching the crate on his lap before calling out to the disoriented man. “Will?” Will stirred an inch, before Hannibal tried again, more sternly. “<em>Will</em>.”</p><p>Gradually, Will conveyed his hands to perch his jaw, heaving through his bruised lips to take a glimpse of his psychiatrist. He's met with the awfully comely man, blond eyebrows hoisting in deep regard. Hannibal tenderly smiled, a feeble attempt to get him to return the favour, but Will only stared at him blankly. “I've got something for you.” Hannibal turned his attention down to the dim crate in his lap. His fingers work the lid open, to which is landed gently besides his knelt knees. Hannibal’s nimble fingers momentarily dissolve into the crate, and for what seemed to be thoroughly loaded of pills and other likely assortments, his fingertips gingerly clinch onto that of a small, brilliantly-scarlet bit.</p><p>“Strawberries?” Will Graham questioned, smiling confusedly, blinking madly.</p><p>His gaze fought between searching the room and lingering on Hannibal, who deliberately lifted the fair berry to his lips. “Yes,” he murmured, attention solely on the fruit and the other's mouth. “Strawberries, and many alike berries provide a maximum of vitamin C, relieving the brain of things like fatigue, memory loss, or anxiety.” Hannibal carded back his dingy hair, whereas he haltingly consumed the berry as if it were to bite him back. He felt his saturated forehead, silent until a withdrawal. “You have a fever.”</p><p>As he moved to stand, the younger interrupted him, lugging down his arm in fortitude to keep him there, panting lowly on his coral lips. To his relief, the psychiatrist backed down against his thighs. Fighting with his breathing, his own disorderly mind, also sweltering in the heat of the imminent pressure, features doused in sweat, his fingers tighten the grasp of Dr. Lector's arm. He squeezed with nail, and Hannibal only complied. “Why?” He breathed, eyes glossy, finally hazed by the explicit definition of reality he'd never been able to experience before until he was with him.</p><p>Hannibal momentarily ran into a dispute of silence, gaze threatening to break from Will's lustrous eyes, drafting down onto the wooden floorboards. His lips move, although he's distinctly mute. His hands, reluctantly, come to hold either side of Will's face, imploring at his cheekbone as he peered into the blue melancholy layered with dark eyelashes and grotesque images. Will Graham looked at him— no, looked <em>through</em> him, carefully. He ran his tongue over his lips, cracked and bitter, their eyes united into an unbreakable, but unmanageable, trance. Will gulped down whatever it was that halted him from breaking down completely, eyes as dry at the evening that sat outside the ingrained window. “Why did you cry for them, and not me?”</p><p>Hannibal, resting in his perdurable silence, conclusively sealed his lips, perpetually unable to answer the simple question Will funded him, could only stiffly shift his head aside and gape with moving lips at the fragments of a man he had contrived. The overbearing aura in the room left a bitter taste, an indescribable hysterical feeling that left Will Graham's voice to break, gripping his forearms and staring into him with the utmost anguish, yet matched with an unpalatable yearning for the man in front of him, bowing at his knees.</p><p>Hannibal could only firmly note the overbearingly aberrant sensation of a glisten running down his flesh, forming from the creases of his dim, menacing eyes. He could feel the funereal nightfall they created together, bleeding of venom and a much more compelling infatuation, the very corporeality to not be demolished into two but to one. Gently, Will's fingers come to grasp Hannibal's cheekbones, drawling him down to meet a gasp of uneven breaths, damp skin and damaged blue eyes to which he met with his own, eternal passion. They move in patterns, willingly but inconsiderate, and it was there Will Graham was mightily torn to a point beyond withdrawal, a point greying of colour and typical love, diurnal courses replaced by everlasting nights, and when the hilt through him was struck, his chest shook violently. The supposed ruinous sensation had his system sorrowing in relief, because it wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title, Aperçu, meaning directly, “a comment or brief reference that makes an illuminating or entertaining point,” is a direct reference to the question Will asked Hannibal, “why he cried for others and not him,” which is important because it is something Hannibal had to sit down and think about. Will says a lot of things that has Hannibal’s and many others’ interests, but nothing hits Hannibal as hard as being told something he did had hurt somebody he loved. And that somebody is Will. Why love him if you can’t cry for him?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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